


Westeros Trailer Park

by starkyd7



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Crazy-Ass People In Wheelchairs, Did I Mention Stereotypes?, Do Not Read This If You Are PC, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Ghetto Fabulous, Humor, Parody, People Of Wal-Mart, Redneck - Freeform, Road Rage!, Stargaryen, Terrible Ethnic Stereotypes Abound, Trailer park, Velveeta & Fritos, sansaery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkyd7/pseuds/starkyd7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. The fine citizens of Westeros Trailer Park struggle after King’s Landing Rental Office falls under new management.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**AN: So, something a little different here, for those who just so happen to enjoy my twisted sense of humor.  
For those who don’t – you may end up a little bit horrified if you don't turn back now. **

**………….**

 

_‘Welcome to Westeros Trailer Park’_

Arya turned left off the highway at the faded sign, and made her way down the wide dirt road that led into Little Dorne’s division of the community, cursing under her breath.

Hottest day they’d had all summer, and Sansa had forgotten to pick her up again.

She stepped aside as she heard the telltale roar of an engine coming up behind her. A brown Chevy El Camino with two panting pitbulls and a few open cases of Corona in the back spun up pebbles as it left her in the dust, bass thumping the windows as it drove past.

Another fiesta being held at Casa de Sunspear, most likely.

Sweat trickled down the back of her neck and into the collar of her charcoal Jiffy Lube coveralls as she tightened her grip on the handle of her lunch pail. Her ears perked, and she started to hear the faint echo of warbling karaoke coming from the same direction the El Camino had been headed, all but confirming her theory.

There’d be no rest for the southern half of the trailer park tonight.

One heavy step after another, she passed the weathered trailers that made up Lemonwood Lane. Rusted appliances sat front and centre in most yards, serving as altars for sunbleached toys and empty tequila bottles that had been left out for one season too many. Loosely-knotted clotheslines dipped under the weight of hand-washed laundry that smelled of dish soap, waiting for a breeze that wasn’t likely to come, and bright orange tarps held by bricks wrapped around old, illegally-parked cars that someone was going to get around to ‘someday’.

Delighted screams and laughter filled the air as dozens of tanned Dornish toddlers scampered around on unkempt lawns, barefoot and naked except for the sagging diapers that clung doggedly to their hips as they blasted each other with dollar store knockoff versions of Supersoaker water guns. Arya tried not to stare as she passed, trying to figure out just exactly which ones were little boys, and which were girls, along with just how many of them there actually _were_.

Not that it really mattered anyways. There always seemed to be more popping up each time she came by; all naked and joyful, leaving no doubt that Oberyn still got around.

Up on shaded porches above, multi-generation family members sat in plastic lawn chairs, beers in hand and their feet resting on bright coolers packed with melting gas station ice. Mothers with cigarettes between their lips and children on their hips manned outdated barbeques, roasting questionable animal parts slathered in spices that would later be loaded up into Tupperware containers and shared amongst the neighbors. They eyed her warily as she passed, the gringo from the north side of the park, and she sighed. Of all the seven subdivisions in Westeros Trailer Park, Little Dorne was the most solitary. If you were one of them, you were family for life – if not, you were best off to just go your way quietly.

The off-key karaoke she’d heard grew louder as Casa de Sunspear came into view. Positioned just off the border of Reach Row, the impressive pink double-wide was not quite as large as Winterfell Terrace, but situated on a lot that was twice as big. As was his custom, Doran Martell sat on the deck on his electric mobility scooter, the yellow smiley-face logo of the Wal-Mart it had been stolen from still emblazoned across the courtesy basket that hung in front. He looked down from his vantage point at the inflatable pool that had been erected on the lawn below, watching as a handful of his nieces and nephews cooled off in the chilled hose water that filled it. He pulled an orange out of his basket and peeled it thoughtfully, entirely unaware of the fact that anyone coming through the Park who didn’t know better could easily mistake him for some sort of pedophile.

Arya grit her teeth against the heat and picked up her pace. There was a cold beer with her name on it waiting at home.

 

……….

 

Arya opened the door to a whirlwind of fur as her husky Nymeria welcomed her home with a howl, followed by sloppy kisses. Arya lifted her fuzzy companion into an oversized ‘puppy hug’, kissing the top of her head before setting her back down, only to find herself assaulted again – but this time by fabric and pleather, and the familiar hum and chop of Sansa’s Singer sewing machine.

“Arya!” she called out in surprise, looking up from her newest creative imitation. “Fuck. It’s after three already?”

Arya just nodded and took in a deep breath, the first of ten she would count before saying anything, just like she’d practiced in Anger Management.

A string of ladylike expletives followed, and Sansa bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry I forgot. Really. But,” she cut a few threads, and carefully pulled a black handbag out from beneath the needle of the Singer, “I promise, it was for a good cause. You _have_ to see this.”

Another breath. _Six…._

Arya set her lunchbox down on the table and made her way over to her exuberant older sister. “Another bag?”

“No! Not just _another bag_ – Arya, this is a perfectly replicated Coach bag. Look,” she swung her arm across the antique wooden desk she’d been sitting at, scattering tailoring debris on to the linoleum floor as she lifted a second, identical purse and held it beside her own. “Look closely. Tell me if you can spot any difference.”

_Nine…_

Arya studied the two handbags, unsure of what to really look for. Size was the same. Zippers matched. Quilted stitching pattern on both seemed to be equal.

One final breath, _ten_ , was released in a huff. “They look the same to me.” A shrug.

A gleam of triumph in pretty blue eyes. “Yes. _Exactly_. Perfectly. Replicated. Coach. Bag.”

Arya’s brow furrowed. “Does that mean,” she pointed to the bag Sansa had lifted for comparison, “ _that_ is a _real_ Coach bag?”

“Oh hell no!” Red looked at her as if she had just eaten a slice of pizza left in the box on the counter overnight again. “This is a Korean knock-off of a Coach bag, which, I _swear_ , is the same as the real thing.”

“Oh… ok. But you know, I don’t really know much about these,” Arya waved her hand in a gesture of futility, “ _things_ , maybe you should have Margaery take a look too.”

“It’s finished, then?” A singsong voice called from the den, as the woman in question rose up from her place in front of the old, flickering Pentium 4 desktop she’d been hunched over.

Margaery Tyrell’s family had been living on Reach Row in the Park nearly as long as the Starks of Winterfell Terrace had been on North Summit, but rarely had their paths crossed until Sansa and Margaery’s affair started five years earlier. Trapped in an unhappy marriage that served to double the size of the Tyrell’s lot and allowed them to expand their urban garden, Margaery’s husband Renly mysteriously died of heart complications shortly after she’d set her sights on Sansa. After his funeral, his older brother Stannis took over the Storm End double-wide they’d been living in, and she’d packed and moved into Winterfell Terrace.

Arya had to admit she did fit in well. And she’d been a tremendous help after the crash .

“It is, let me show you. How long do you think it’ll take to set up that webpage? Now that I’ve got the hang of it, I can start mass production.” Arya watched as her sister proudly displayed the two bags to Margaery, who looked over each with a critical eye before giving Red a warm kiss of approval.

Trying not to roll her eyes at their penchant for PDA, Arya pulled two packets of S’mores flavored pop-tarts out of the cupboard and a can of Budweiser out of the fridge, and headed back out the way she came.

 

**………**

When she finished, there’d be nothing else like it.

The Dodge Charger R/T 440 sat on cinderblocks atop the overgrowth that had once been a parking pad beside Winterfell Terrace, nearly complete. It was a heap when she’d bought it just after starting at Jiffy Lube; a rust-bucket with blown engine that was being sold for parts.

But cousin Jon had always taught Arya to see the potential in things, from the day he gave her a wrench of her own to work with in the garage alongside him. And from the moment she’d envisioned just what that Charger _could_ be, she’d set her mind to restoring it, on her own, one component at a time.

Half a pop-tart hanging from her mouth, she pulled some steel wool from Robb’s old tool box that he’d passed down to her, and looked over the chrome bumper that sat on her makeshift workbench. They were in good form, but the years had taken a toll on their shine – they were rusty as hell, just like the wheel rims Margaery had managed to find for her on eBay. It’d likely take her the entire weekend to get them buffed up before she could seal them.

Cracking open her Bud, she turned on the old battery powered alarm clock she used for a radio, and set it to the retro station. She’d just started scouring the rear bumper accompanied by Def Leppard when Sansa came out in a pair of flip-flops, the hint of a smirk quirking her lips. “Hey.”

Arya reached over and turned down the music. “Hey. Need something?”

The hint became a full-fledged smirk. “Dany just called.”

“Oh?” Arya tried to remain impassive, even as her heart skipped a beat.

“Mhmm. She asked if you could stop by and take a look at her car. She’s having trouble getting it started again.” Sansa eyed her knowingly. “I told her you’d head over right away.”

Arya felt her cheeks flush as she forced a shrug. “Yeah, well… maybe I could take a look.”

“I thought as much.” The smirk remained a moment longer, then Sansa leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Just _tell her_ how you feel, Underfoot.”

Arya scowled through her blush. “Will you ever stop calling me that? And… she’s just my friend.”

Sansa laughed, soft and perfect, the way she did so many things. “Arya, you’ve been infatuated with your ‘ _friend_ ’ since we were in grade school. And everyone knows it but _her_. Step up.”

It was true.

Dany was the youngest child and only daughter of Aerys Targaryen, the former Landlord of King’s Landing Rental Office, before he’d died and left the Park to Dany’s older, crazy brother Viserys. With platinum blonde hair an eighties diva would give a limb for, violet shaded eyes and pale skin, Arya had fallen for her the first time she’d seen her step foot on the big yellow school bus years ago, and hadn’t gotten up since.

She did consider telling Dany how she felt, once upon a time. When Dany had just turned sixteen and bought her refinished 1977 Pontiac Trans Am, Arya would get up early before school every day, while it was still dark enough, and run to Reach Row in the south side of the trailer park to stealthily pick one of the blue roses from Meemaw Olenna’s garden. Then she’d head over to the King’s Landing office, and leave the rose on Dany’s windshield, held snug by the wiper. For two weeks she kept it up, rain or shine, planning to leave a note wrapped around the stem at the end of the third week, declaring her love.

It didn’t quite work out.

Dany never had a chance to find out who her smitten suitor was, because Meemaw Olenna found out who her rose thief was _first_. Arya had to build and paint a brand new fence around the entire Tyrell lot in recompense, and just when she’d finished, well, that’s when they’d all gotten news about the accident.

Hearing about your mother, father, aunt and uncle getting crumpled in their old Buick by a semi that swung into the wrong lane on the highway tended to make one forget about everything else.

“I’ll tell her soon, San,” Arya said finally, “really.”

 

**………**

 

“Drogon, NO!” Arya heard Dany cry out, straining against the large Doberman’s leash as she made her way down the drive of King’s Landing Rental Office.

Resting on a massive lot in the center of Westeros Trailer Park, the Red Keep modular was the most prestigious unit available, as large as a triple-wide and featuring a full backyard above-ground pool that would most likely make old Doran Martell cry if he ever scooted by and saw it.

It truly was fit for a Queen of the Trailer Park.

Once Drogon was securely chained up with his smaller brothers Rhaegal and Viserion, Dany greeted her with a hug. “Oh gosh, I didn’t know you’d just gotten home from work,” Dany said with a smile, tugging the back of her coveralls. “I could have waited.”

“It was no trouble,” Arya said, hoping her palms weren’t starting to sweat. “I was home for a while, I was just working on the Charger, so I didn’t bother to change.”

“How long has it been since you started on that?” Dany asked, slowly pulling away. “Two years?”

“About that, yeah.” Arya grinned. “But it’s finally almost finished.”

“Take me for a ride when it’s done?” Dany asked playfully, raising an eyebrow.

“You’ll be the first.” Arya promised, wondering if Dany could possibly ever imagine how many times she’d daydreamed of doing just that. “So,” Arya said, clearing her throat and lifting her toolbox. “Trans Am won’t start?”

“No,” the silver-haired beauty sighed, leading her to the parked muscle car. “And it’s making that strange noise again, the same as last time.”

“Huh.” Arya popped the hood, inspecting the W72 engine. “Let me check something out. I’ll need you to try turning it over in a minute.”

“Of course.” Dany pulled the keys from the fanny pack clipped around her waist, and pulled open the door.

Just as Dany was settling into the driver’s seat, the roar of an oversized engine and a stereo cranked to full volume blasting Lynyrd Skynyrd came up behind them as a familiar mud bog truck raced up the drive, skidding to a halt right in front of the Red Keep modular. Arya turned to look over her shoulder, making a face when she saw Cersei Lannister of Casterly Route along with her fraternal husband Jaime climb down from their ridiculous rig.

Sporting black tights, a large Mickey Mouse shirt cinched with a wide belt, and silver hooped earrings large enough to shoot basketballs through, Cersei walked with her nose in the air as if she’d just bypassed Wal-Mart entirely and headed straight for Target along with the rest of the fancy folk.

They were certainly putting on airs all of a sudden, for being the poorest family in the trailer park.

Arya saw Dany roll her eyes through the windshield as she got out of the car. “Cersei, Jaime,” she said, using the slightly twanged managerial tone of her kin, “if this is about the rent again, I’ve told you, I can’t extend your deadline any further. It’s been three months already.”

“Oh, we’re not here about the rent,” Jaime said smugly, his blonde mullet catching in a light breeze.

“Then just why _are_ you here?” Dany asked irritably.

“We just thought we’d come by and take a closer look at our new home.” Cersei answered for him with a satisfied smirk.

Dany’s eyes narrowed. “ _Excuse me?_ I think it’s high time you both left now.”

“Awwe,” Cersei looked up at Jaime with mock sympathy, “look at that. The poor dear doesn’t even know what’s happened.”

“You two have lost your minds, that’s what’s happened!”

“No honey, we haven’t lost anything. In fact, quite the opposite – that’s why we’re here.” The smirk returned. “Daddy just won the Powerball, sweetie. And since your brother hasn’t been making payments on Westeros for the last few months since being locked away in the psych ward, we went ahead and bought it outright from the bank just this afternoon.”

“…what?” Dany asked incredulously, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Pack your bags.” Cersei ordered, the edge in her voice as sharp as a blade. “You have twenty-four hours until we officially take possession. Westeros is ours, now.”


	2. Chapter 2

Much like Arya Stark had a gift for seeing what was broken inside machines, Margaery Tyrell could do the same with damaged people.

And for a long while, the Starks had all been as busted as they come.

They each had their own fault lines, and the day that Buick smashed, Margaery watched as they all snapped along those jagged, subterranean edges.

Cousin Jon had packed a bag and left in the night without a word. At first they’d all thought he’d run off North of the Trailer Park Wall, to find comfort in the arms of his on-again off-again girlfriend Ygritte. But after a week of hearing nothing, Robb made the trip up to see the hill people, only to find that Ygritte had been out with Tormund on a moonshine run and no one had seen Jon around for months. Eventually, when Jon did come back, it was with _another_ woman - Melisandre– an evangelical priestess, who lived in the Light of the Lord and was determined to see them all one day cleansed by the Fire of the Holy Spirit. To hear Jon tell it, she had completely _revived_ him.

Then again, Jon always did have a thing for redheads. Even if they were insistent on baptizing his kin in an old washtub.

Robb coped with the loss of his father by becoming one himself, after one fling too many caught up with him. Young Jeyne Westerling, from a small trailer on the West Side of the Park, strong-armed him into a paternity test that proved he was the father of her twin boys, Aaron and Ryan, and Talisa Maegyr from over on the far east side of town bore him a third son just a few short months later – little Eddard Stark. Ol’ Poppa Stark had a small life insurance policy that Robb had cashed in shortly after the crash, which enabled him to buy a used tow truck and plow blade to start his own business – Winter is Coming Towing and Plow Co. He hired Jon on shortly after, and between the two of them he managed to pay the pad rent on Winterfell Terrace, _and_ his court ordered maintenance.

Most of the time.

Bran, already at an age where he was questioning the deeper meaning of life and the great purpose of his own existence thanks to the conflicting teachings of public school philosophy, discovered the emo within. He grew his hair out, bought some eyeliner, took to borrowing Sansa’s skinny jeans and v-neck shirts, and wore his eternal suffering on his sleeve. He listened to Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance cranked up at full volume, and brandished his tears openly like sensitive badges of honor. Girls flocked to mend his dark, wounded soul, until eventually he hooked up with Meera Reed down at the far end of North Summit. Meera and her brother Jojen took him to a few rallies held by Third-Eye Raven, and he pulled out of his mire of despair and realized that it wasn’t _his_ fault life was shitty – it was _the world’s_ fault.

He promptly went to Hot Topic to get everything he needed, and redefined himself as a goth.

Arya had reacted to the death of her parents the same way she reacted to anything else that grieved her – violently. When the sheriff came ‘round to break the news, Arya had refused to believe him at first, calling him a liar and telling him ‘the fucking donut shop was down the highway’. Sansa was still too stunned to speak, so it fell to Margaery to apologize on Arya’s behalf, and try to lead the volatile younger Stark sister away. Once the truth of the situation hit Arya though, there was no gentle hand that could pull her back; she struck the wrench Jon had given her across the sheriff’s jaw and tackled him to the floor, earning herself another arrest and a three month stint back in juvy.

Dany, who had heard about the crash on the evening news and rushed over to offer moral support, had arrived just in time to see Arya being handcuffed and shoved into the back of the sheriff’s car.

Little Rickon, who had just returned from the playground he’d spent the afternoon at with the Umber boys, also witnessed the exhibition before being held by a watery-eyed Sansa, and told that mom and dad had gone to heaven, just like Shaggydog had the year before, after the poor mutt had made the mistake of trying to chase Ramsey Bolton’s Ford Pinto out of the Park.

The boy had just stared, blankly, as if he wasn’t hearing what he was being told. He refused to speak a single word for nearly two years after, and really, it was quite easy to forget he was even there.

Then there was Sansa herself.

As everyone else broke down, Sansa stood in the placid eye of the storm at the center of all of their grief. She remained at Winterfell Terrace, setting funeral arrangements with Robb, caring for silent Rickon, and then, after Ned and Catelyn were buried, making the drive out of county to Black Cell Juvenile Detention Center at least once a week to visit with Arya.

It was only when night fell, with nothing left to tend to in the quiet double-wide, that she curled up in Margaery’s arms and cried.

If time in Meemaw Olenna’s prize rose garden had taught her anything, it was that some flowers looked as if they just might die after pruning. But, once they recovered from the shock, well, those blooms would become the strongest of the bunch.

She decided the same could be said of the fine family she was marrying into. And she was proud to stand at Sansa’s side, helping to hold it all together.

Margaery heard the Singer speed up, a sure sign that Sansa was nearly done with the second counterfeit Coach design. She looked down at her notepad, inspecting the label logo she’d drafted once more:

**_[COOCH]_ **

It was perfect.

Cooch was going to become the next big name in quality Coach bag knockoffs, hands-down. With five authentic Korean imitation designs to use as their template(they were really, exactly the same as the real thing), hand-crafted with a choice variety of unique textiles marked down to dirt cheap discount, there was nothing but money to be made.

Money enough for a fancy wedding down at Highgarden Cottage, with the biggest lemon cake in Westeros Trailer Park history.

_Margaery and Sansa Tyrell-Stark. Or should it be Margaery and Sansa Stark-Tyrell?_

Time enough to get that sorted out later.

If all went according to plan, she’d have their Angelfire website built by the end of the weekend.

In the meantime, dinner wasn’t going to make itself. For all the virtues of her adopted family, not one of them had a lick of skill in the kitchen, and if Margaery hadn’t been around for the last few years to do the cooking, they all would have been living off of ramen, cereal, and poptarts.

“Sansa,” she called out over the sewing machine’s hum as she started pulling ingredients from the pantry, “how many are we expecting for dinner tonight?”

Sansa looked up from her crafting. “Depends. Do you remember if Robb has the twins this weekend?”

“I don’t.” A thoughtful pause. “I’ll make two Velveeta Frito casseroles, just in case.”

Sansa flashed her a grateful smile, then stood up and made her way across the kitchen, wrapping her arms around Margaery’s waist and resting her chin on her shoulder. “Let me help?” she asked sweetly.

A feline grin curved across Margaery’s lips. “That’s a terrible thing you do, Sansa Stark.”

“What do you mean?” the tall redhead feigned innocence, lightly kissing her neck.

“ **That**.” Margaery asserted, instinctively arching her neck a little just the same. “Less than an hour until nearly everyone’s back home, and Bran already walked in on us last time you decided to ‘help me’ in the kitchen.”

Sansa groaned. “Please, don’t remind me.” Sighing, she reluctantly relaxed her hold on Margaery and stepped back.

_‘We’re here live at Westeros Trailer Park, where local Powerball winner Tywin Lannister and his family have-’_

Both Margaery and Sansa’s eyes widened as they heard the faint echo, and they rushed to the television set.

There, featured on the early evening news, stood the entire Lannister family – Tywin, Jaime, Cersei, Tyrion, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen, holding a huge check with far too many zeroes on it in front of Casterly Row.

_‘So tell us Tywin, what do you plan to do with the winnings?’_

_‘As with all things, we’ll keep it in the family.’_

Margaery was too stunned to even snicker.

_‘So is it true that you’ve already made a sizeable investment in the form of this very trailer park?’_

_‘It is. My family has lived in Westeros Trailer Park since shortly after its founding. Now, it’s going to become a Lannister legacy for generations to come.’_

“Oh hell no…” Sansa muttered in disbelief.

Margaery’s brow furrowed. “Sansa, just where are Arya and Dany right now?”

 

**……….**

AC/DC’s ‘Thunderstruck’ blasted from the stereo as two hundred horsepower roared beneath a golden hood phoenix, and Arya held on for dear life.

“Merge, or I swear, I will firebomb your goddam loved ones!” Dany’s palm slammed the center of the steering wheel, and a horn modded to sound like a shotgun blast rang out, causing the little Honda Civic up ahead to swerve in distress.

Arya just closed her eyes, praying that every other driver either sped up, or got the hell out of Dany’s way.

To this day, she still couldn’t understand it. Dany was warm and sweet as apple pie… until she sat behind the wheel.

Then, she became a _dragon_ , fierce and full of uncontrollable rage.

A dragon that demanded everyone who dare drive under the speed limit die a horrifically painful death.

A dragon capable of spewing a string of creative curses that would make a sailor blush, to anyone who committed the great sin of neglecting to use a turn signal.

And to those who _dared_ to cut the dragon off, intentionally or not – well, they got the _deluxe treatment_ , with two middle fingers raised up high while they were damned to the deepest, darkest pits of every hell that had ever existed in any religion since the dawn of time.

And that was on a _good_ day.

Today was anything _but_ a good day.

Arya had gotten the Trans Am started just a few minutes after the Lannisters had left, and Dany had grabbed her by her collar and pushed her into the passenger seat in a way that would have made her heart skip a beat had it occurred under different circumstances.

Her first screeching stop was the Iron Bank, to check on her family’s account.

True enough, it had been completely drained.

The fury of the dragon had carried Dany through _that_ shock, and before Arya could so much as reach for a seatbelt they were back on the road, burning rubber towards the mental hospital, to find out just what exactly Viserys had done.

_‘He was a Nigerian **prince** , Dany,’_ Viserys had told her indignantly as he ate his cup of lime Jell-O. _‘You don’t just ignore an e-mail from royalty. Besides, as soon as he returns to his country we’re being repaid **triple**.’_

They had left him ranting about his brilliance from his wheelchair in the sunny yard.

_‘Come back home with me, Dany. Stay at Winterfell Terrace a while, and we’ll get this all sorted out. I promise.’_

The engine revved above the music, and a cool wind ruffled Arya’s choppy hair as Dany rolled down her window to yell at a particularly slow moving Arab-driven minivan as she passed by.

“Y’all go back to your own damn country! This is America! Don’t come back ‘till you take them rags off your head and learn how to drive on the right side of the road!”

There it was – the Old Texan twang of her family’s bloodline roots. Like so many frightening things, it only seemed to surface when she was angry, or driving.

Arya just sat back, and repeated her list of prayers.


	3. Chapter 3

Angry violet eyes peeked from behind the neglected shrubbery, watching the chaos playing out at the King’s Landing Rental Office.

It had been just over a week since Dany’s crazy brother Viserys had lost the Targaryen family fortune, and Westeros Trailer Park along with it, to a Nigerian e-mail scam. With the sale finalized, the Lannisters had wasted no time moving themselves into the newly acquired Red Keep, quickly adapting the generational Targaryen modular for their own, and turning it into a veritable hillbilly paradise. Gone was Dany’s classic 1977 Pontiac Trans Am, replaced by what looked to be the original Bigfoot monster truck, complete with a set of brand new, oversized Firestones, and an aftermarket stereo that was rattling the windows as ‘Cherry Pie’ rang out across the lot. Also missing were the snap dragons, fireblooms and bloodflowers she’d been growing in window boxes along the perimeter of the deck, haphazardly cast aside to make room for a collection of creepy little garden gnomes and glittering pinwheels that hummed every time the wind spun them. All of her patio furniture had been taken from beneath the gazebo, the sheltered space now being used to host the stacked boxes of Franzia wine Cersei had ordered, along with a few crates of fancy wine-stemmed mason jars she’d picked up somewhere ‘cross the state line. A picnic table, clearly lifted from Godswood Park, had been placed in the middle of the lawn. Buckets of KFC with a wide variety of the Colonel’s famous sides lined the top of it, where fat young Tommen and his equally husky sister Myrcella had parked themselves and set to task with a will, as if determined to prove to the world that they could eat just as much fried chicken as those kids from Summer Island Park.

Laughter and splashing sounded over the booming bass of Warrant, and Dany glanced over at her once-beloved pool, where Tyrion, Tywin’s youngest son, was entertaining a half-dozen delighted, squealing hookers. Dany died a little inside as she watched the red light district women frolicking in her former haven, knowing that some things just don’t ever come clean after they’ve been sullied.

Sighing, Dany tightened her grip on the trio of leashes she was holding, set to head back to the north side of the park.

A loud, rasping screech stopped her in her tracks.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Jaime outside at the Rental Office flag pole, pulling proud Ol’ Glory down. Brow furrowed, Dany watched as the Man with the Golden Mullet unclasped the stars and stripes, and started to raise up a faded confederate flag in its place.

The _slavery_ flag.

Daenerys felt her normally calm demeanor start to morph, as her face began to heat and contort in a primal, all-consuming rage. Her eyes flashed, and for a moment she envisioned the entire lot of King’s Landing aflame - fire licking up at the sides of the Red Keep modular, melting every hideous little gnome skirting around it into colorful puddles of goo, as boxes of cheap wine burst and oversized tires melted, all while panicked prostitutes screamed in terror.

The thought of something so horrific shouldn’t have made her so happy. But right then, it did. And if nothing else, she came by it honestly.

‘Touched by the dragon’, her family had called it. The Targaryens always had a fascination with fire, resulting in a long, storied history of arsons and arrests, the most famous of which was Pop-pop Jaehaerys, who had once burned down a Costco after they refused to let him in without a membership card. ‘ _Kill them all and let God sort them out!_ ’ the white-haired old Texan had crowed as he waved his sawed-off shotgun amidst the smoke rising up over the horizon, until the State Police tasered him to the ground and put him away for what remained of his life.

Dany never thought anything could ever make her angry enough to wake the dragon of her bloodline. But as she watched that gods be damned rebel flag flapping in the wind above her home, she had to acknowledge her Achille’s heel. For as much as Daenerys loved her country, and was proud to be descended from the blood of Old America, nothing stoked her ire more than its atrocious historical practice of slavery.

Though, whores peeing in her pool was also working its way up the list right quick as well.

 

**……….**

Dany unclipped Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal’s leashes, and led them into the chain-link dog run Arya and Jon had erected for her in the backyard of Winterfell Terrace, beside the glass garden greenhouse Margaery so often tended. Being one of the most established families in Westeros Trailer Park, the Starks had an impressive lot, which they put to better use than most.

She felt guilty for taking up so much of it.

Arya had brought her home that fateful night after she’d lost everything due to her brother’s idiocy, and the Starks (along with Margaery) had taken her in without question. Despite the late hour, they’d all gone with her to the Red Keep modular, and spent half the night helping her pack. They put everything that wouldn’t fit at Winterfell Terrace into Last Hearth storage, renting a locker there with Arya’s pre-paid Visa. Arya had given Dany her room as well, and moved into the garage loft that Jon had been living in before he’d moved in with Melisandre. Arya’s Charger R/T 440, now fully assembled and sporting wheels, had been pushed into the stall beneath the makeshift apartment, allowing her to work on the finishes regardless of the weather, and giving Dany room to park her Trans Am.

When Dany had tried to protest, insisting that Arya was going to far too much trouble, the mechanically-inclined Stark had just shrugged and grinned in that rakish way she had, saying she’d been planning to make the move anyways.

Dany could have kissed her, right then.

And it wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed her mind.

Truth be told, Arya had always encapsulated a multitude of traits Daenerys found attractive, to a point where her unsuccessful dating history had become an easily-deciphered pattern. Her friend Missandei had pointed it out to her once, commenting on the fact that the few men Dany had tried dating were really just shallow, male versions of northside greasemonkey she spent so much time with. Dany had brushed the younger girl’s observation off at first – after all, what could a muscular Bouncer from the plains of Vaes Dothrak, and a cocky freelance stuntman from Tyrosh Hills possibly have in common with a pale mechanic from Westeros Trailer Park? – until she was forced to stare the truth right in its defiant eyes.

It had happened the night of crash, right after word got out that Eddard and Catelyn Stark had been killed. Daenerys had ran all the way over to Winterfell Terrace, just as two sheriffs had slammed Arya down on the hood of their car while trying to wrestle a pair of cuffs on her bloodied wrists. A quick glance up at the porch had told the story – an abandoned, bloodstained wrench beside a groaning uniformed officer – and Dany’s eyes caught hold of Arya’s then, dark with a familiar, savage ferocity that instantly drew her in like a moth to a flame.

She only wished that she’d realized the truth sooner, before already pledging her heart to another.

For as irresistible as she found Arya Stark’s brash recklessness to be, there was _someone_ out there who had just a _bit_ more nerve, and had struck first. And even though she didn’t know exactly _who_ it was, that bold suitor had _dared_ to brave the fabled wrath of Meemaw Olenna, just to bring her some beautiful blue winter roses.

And if that wasn’t true love, Dany didn’t know what was.

“Oh good, Dany, you’re back,” Red said with a smile as she opened the screen door, letting Nymeria out into the yard. “Get yourself ready, we need to go _shopping_.” Blue eyes lit up with the kind of glee that only impending retail therapy could provide.

Dany knelt down to pat Arya’s excitable husky pup. “Oh? Do you want me to drive? We could take the Trans Am.”

Red’s eyes widened just a little. “Oh, really, that’s alright,” she said, nervously. “We… need the trunk space of the Caprice.”

Dany wasn’t sure why anyone would prefer to drive that rusted old lady car if they didn’t have to, but she did have a point about the lack of trunk space. “Alright,” she stood up and shrugged. “I’ll just get my-” her voice trailed off as she felt an energetic weight start to thump against her leg, bringing memories of Drogon as a puppy immediately to her mind.

“Nymeria!” Sansa called out, exasperated, as she lunged forward to pull the aroused husky away from Dany’s leg. “How many times do we have to tell you that’s not right?!” She looked up at Dany apologetically as she shepherded Nymeria back into the trailer. “I’m sorry – as you can probably tell, this one’s about as well-behaved as her master.”

Dany just laughed as she smoothed out her violated pantleg. “In _that_ case, I’d expect nothing less.”

The screen door swung open again, and this time Margaery stepped out. “Do you two hear that?” She asked.

Dany’s smile faltered when she saw the sober expression on the Tyrell’s face. “Hear what?”

The three were quiet for a moment, and then Dany heard it – a faint, looping tune echoing from the southern direction of Little Dorne.

The song of the ice cream man.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Dany scowled. “I told that dirty old man never to come back to Westeros Trailer Park!”

“Maybe it’s not him,” Sansa tentatively supplied. “Maybe it’s someone else driving.”

“Or maybe he just heard that King’s Landing Rental Office is under new management,” Margaery said cynically.

Dany led the charge to the front of Winterfell Terrace, where they awaited the approaching van, playing its cheerful melody in hopes of luring unsuspecting children like some kind of predatory pied piper. As soon as it drew close enough, Dany instantly recognized the old pervert she’d banished from the Park two years earlier.

“Y’all get the hell out of Westeros, Pycelle!” The Targaryen commanded in her authoritative twang , stalking up to his creeper-wagon. “When I said never come back, that’s exactly what I meant!”

The old letch smiled, his gnarled hands shaky on the wheel. “I… I serve.. the Lannisters,” he said in that feigned, feeble tenor he was always so fond of employing. He hit the brake and turned to face her. “Who… who’s the exile n-now, bitch?” He flipped her the bird, then sped off, Pop Goes the Weasel blaring crudely in his wake.

Dany hung her head and sighed.

 

**……….**

 

It was a little after noon when Sansa pulled up to the Wal-Mart, guiding her 1987 Chevrolet Caprice smoothly into the handicapped parking space. Margaery pulled out a wheelchair emblazoned placard, and hung it up from the rearview mirror.

“How did you get a hold of _that?_ ” Dany asked curiously, as she let herself out of the car.

Sansa smirked. “I had Arya go out and swipe it from Doran’s van a few years ago. I knew he could get another one easy enough, bein’ actually handicapped and all.”

“But,” Dany’s brow furrowed, “aren’t we taking a spot someone else may really need?”

“Oh no, honey,” Margaery piped in cheerfully. “Don’t you worry about that. They’ve got plenty. It’s actually quite unfair, if you think about it – they get _all_ of the good parking, and most of them are in chairs anyways. They don’t even need to _walk_ to the entrance.”

Dany couldn’t argue that logic.

She pulled a cart from the rack, and the trio walked through the sliding doors and headed towards the pharmacy and beauty department, following behind an obese woman on a courtesy scooter proudly displaying a shirt that read ‘SHOPPING IS MY CARDIO’ across the back. From her vantage point above, Dany could see that the scooter’s basket was filled with boxes of Hostess snacks, chocolate bars and potato chips, then topped off with a single case of Diet Pepsi.

They turned down an aisle, and Sansa and Margaery started looking intently at the shelves full of deodorants.

“I think it was this one,” Sansa said, reaching for a purple tube of Lady Speed Stick.

“No, it wasn’t purple I don’t think,” Margaery opposed, eyeing a light blue cylinder of Secret. “I’m pretty sure this is the one we liked.”

“Well I don’t remember there being those flowers on the front,” Sansa countered. “Only one way to be sure.” The tall redhead checked to see that the aisle was clear, and tugged the plastic seal from the Lady Speed Stick, then pulled a stripe under her arm.

“You’re right,” Red said, putting the deodorant back on the shelf as Dany stared, wide-eyed and forgotten behind them, “that’s not the one.”

A knowing smile, and Margaery tossed her selection into the cart.

They moved onward, heading across the main concrete thoroughfare toward the grocery section. Dany handled the cart with the expertise of an Indy 500 racer, tight around turns, and waiting for no man to pass.

It riled her, the way some people were as terrible at driving a shopping cart as they were their cars.

Working in well-practiced tandem, Red and her fiancée systematically filled the buggy while crossing items off of their list. When they passed through the snack aisle, Dany tossed in an extra bag of Cheetos for Arya – the puffy kind she liked, not the crunchy ones – along with a few more boxes of those S’more poptarts she somehow seemed to live off of when working on the Charger. After about an hour in the Smiling Rollback Trenches, they were finished, and took their place in line.

“What time is it?” Sansa asked, looking around for a clock.

“About one-thirty,” Dany answered, looking at her wristwatch. “I was going to pick up Arya at three, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Thank you,” the tall Stark said with visible relief. “I can’t wait till she’s got that damned Dodge up and running. Don’t get me wrong; I love Underfoot, but Cooch is really starting to take off too. We’ve had three orders this week already.”

“It’s no trouble,” Dany said, “really.” She considered mentioning that Arya probably could have finished repairing her Charger long ago if she hadn’t been paying the household expenses along with Robb and Jon after Ned and Cat died, but being a guest herself, she didn’t want to appear rude.

The cashier rang up their purchases, and they loaded up the Caprice, leaving the cart abandoned in the parking space behind them. Traffic was still light this time of day, and they made it back to the trailer park before Dany had to endure too much of Margaery’s favorite Country Classic radio station.

“The hell is this?” Red muttered, setting down the bags she’d been carrying on the porch and pulling away a yellow piece of paper that had been taped to the door. Her well-manicured brow creased, and a scowl tugged the corners of her mouth. “Sons of whores! Not two weeks in, and the Lannisters are upping everyone’s rent.”


End file.
